


Attention, Attention

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first real memory, my first clear one -not something that could’ve been a dream, but an actual memory- was of me trying to kill my brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attention, Attention

    My first real memory, my first clear one -not something that could’ve been a dream, but an actual memory- was of me trying to kill my brother. I remember the way the pillowcase felt beneath my hand, soft and smooth, the way that I could feel Gerard’s pointed nose through it. I was three, he was six, but he was skinny for his age, and I was on top of him, putting all my weight onto his face. I remember his arms flailing, trying to grab hold of me to push me off, but I only pressed the pillow down harder. I don’t even know why I was trying to kill him, I don’t know if I had a reason. He was only saved by our father, who came by to tuck us into bed. He pulled me up by my armpits and said, “This,” he put the pillow down where it was supposed to go, “never happened.” He checked to see if Gerard was alright, then kissed his forehead, but not mine. Later, I would find out that he never tucked me in ever.

    At the time, we lived in a small house, Gerard and I had to share a room. During the night, I used to stare at Gerard’s sleeping figure, and in my young mind, I would plot his death. I could slip poison into his meals. Drown him in the bathtub. Push him into oncoming traffic. Slit his throat with scissors. When we moved houses, we each got our own bedroom. I was six, he was nine. His room was much bigger than mine. Mom said it was because he was older, but I knew what she meant, even back then.

    _Because he’s a better son than you. Because we love him more._ I kept planning his  demise. I could stab him with a knife. Choke him with rope. Smash his head in with a rock. Gerard constantly has friends over, always was having a playdate or sleepover. Me, on the other hand, wasn’t allowed to invite the few friends I had managed to made over.

    “We just don’t have enough time, we’re too busy.” My mom would say, while making cookies for Gerard’s class.

    “I haven’t met your friends parents, we don’t know what they’re like.” She would tell me, while driving home from dropping Gerard off at his new best friend’s house.

    “It’s not that we don’t want to let you have fun, we just can’t.” She would explain as she signed a birthday invitation Gerard gave her, to make sure he could go. Maybe I could push him off the top of the jungle gym at school.

    When I was ten, and Gerard was thirteen, I started having trouble sleeping. I told my Dad, he just brushed it off, told me to stop spending so much time in front of the television. Sometimes, during the night, I slipped into Gerard’s room. He was a heavy sleeper, so I could put my hand millimeters from his face. I could feel the air get sucked in through his nose, and feel it coming out, warm and damp, through his mouth. More than once, the thought crossed my mind to reenact what happened when I was three, only this time, Dad wouldn’t be here to pull me off him. I never did though, I don’t know why. The next year, when he was fourteen, he started going to therapy. Why? Because he was withdrawn, because he seemed angry, because he couldn’t sleep? No. Because Mom was worried that he was too skinny, never mind the fact that every meal she saw him shoving food off of the plate and into his mouth.

    “We just want to make sure you’re okay,” She said, when she first brought it up. Gerard whined in reply, and I glared at him from the top of the stairs, where I was hiding. I could push him in front of a car. I could shove pills down his throat. I could bash his head in with a bat. Mom was worried that he was too skinny, so she was sending him to a doctor. When I stopped eating, only taking small bites of food and then threw it always, all she said was, “You’re wasting food, Mikey. You’re wasting food that we spent our hard earned money on to get for you.” _That we spent to get for Gerard._

    He went to therapy, spilled his guts to a professional, and what we found out was that he was, apparently, clinically depressed. I don’t think I ever hated him more that I did at that moment. Sometimes, I think he did everything just piss me off. The week before he went, I got an A on a test. Mom had to sign it before I brought it back. She smiled and congratulated me, and took everyone out to dinner because of it. It was the first time in a while that I remember her being proud of me. Even though most of conversations focused around Gerard, like always. Sometimes, I think Gerard wanted me to hate him. Because no matter what I did, he just _had_ to outshine me. I got an A on a test, he got three A’s on his report card. I got praise from a teacher on my work, a teacher would call home asking if he could transfer Gerard to a more advance class. I did something good, then Gerard had to do something great.

    I plotted his tragic end in deeper detail now. Chinese torture methods played through my mind, Viking punishment ran through a lot too. At one point Dark Age conversion methods crossed my mind.

When he was fifteen, and I was thirteen, everything was finally starting to be fine. He wasn’t doing anything too wild, the attention that therapy got him was starting to wear off. Mom started to pay some attention to me, and Dad didn’t completely ignore me. They were telling me I was a good kid, saying how I was smart. My grades were evening out, they were average, but consistent, I didn’t get into trouble that often. I thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

    But, of course, Gerard had to fuck all that up again. He told us, one day, that he had a new friend. That this new friend was amazing. For weeks he talked of nothing but this friend, _Frank_ , telling us how amazing and cool and funny he was. Mom and Dad were so intrigued with this. So curious about the boy who made their son so giddy. Things always ended up like this. Once Gerard had something to attract attention, it went to him like a magnet. I tried to talk to my parents, even tried to talk to Gerard, but no. All everyone wanted to hear about was fucking Frank.

    Months went by, and we hadn’t so much as seen a picture of Frank. At one point, I even thought he was just made up. Imaginary.

    Until Gerard asked if Frank could come over the next day. Mom was so excited. By this time, we knew - or at least I knew - that Frank was Gerard’s boyfriend. It was obvious, by the way that he talked about him. Frank made Gerard happy, happier than I had ever seen. I hated Frank before I even knew him. When he walked through the door, Gerard pointing to me and saying, “That’s Mikey, my little brother.” I was already planning his untimely end.

    Mom loved Frank. She thought he was nice, and funny, and vaguely adorable. She liked how happy he made Gerard. It was sickening, really.

    Gerard turned sixteen, and he was still friends with Frank. He was still dating Frank. It was sad, really, that I had to fight for attention with someone that wasn’t even related to. I hated everything to do with both of them. Frank started staying the night, sleeping out in Gerard’s room. One time, when I had another bout of insomnia, I stood in the doorway of his room. They were curled up together, cuddling in their sleep. Their chests rose and fell at the same time. All I could think about was how much I wanted them to stop.

    Despite all of this, I could forgive Gerard. I knew half the time he didn’t mean to get attention (that made me hate him more) and the other half he just couldn’t help it. Sometimes, he remembered me and tried to get me into the conversation. Sometimes he apologized for the things he did.

    Sometimes I did love him. Despite everything, he was my brother. I had to love him. I didn’t have to like him. Even after everything, I could forgive him.

    But when Gerard was seventeen, he did an unforgivable act. Frank and him were fighting, apparently Gerard was becoming unstable again. (I still doubted that he was unstable in the first place.) There was lying, and fighting. They thought they loved each other.

    That didn’t stop them from breaking up. It didn’t stop Frank from spewing all of Gerard’s secrets to the whole school.

    Gerard was devastated, he was a wreck. He was running out of pills well before he was supposed too, his therapist was calling out parents to arrange a meeting with them. He cried, and screamed and hid in his room and refused to come out. He was such a drama queen. Barely ate, didn’t speak. He looked like he was dying.

    I don’t think I ever slept better.

The endless nights of staring at the walls and ceiling disappeared. I remember that one night, I woke up to Gerard sitting on my bed. He was staring at me, petting my hair. I could remember vaguely when he used to do that when I was a little kid, it annoyed the hell out of me, but it was comforting to my sleep ridden mind.

    “What are you doing?” I whispered, eyes fluttering shut again. I could hear Gerard sigh, and his hand stopped moving.

    “I’m sorry, Mikey.” He whispered. I wanted to ask what for. But I knew. Gerard wasn’t stupid. He knew everything. He knew he was addicted to attention, just like me. He knew I hated him, he probably knew I wanted him dead. He knew that I watched him sleep, and stole his pills, and slipped alcohol into his drinks. He knew I stole his stuff and ruined it. He knew all of this. And he was saying he was sorry.

    I both hated him, and pitied him. Gerard leaned down, and pressed his lips to my head.

    “I’m real sorry.” He whispered again, “I’ll make everything okay, though. I promise.”

    Even when he was saying sorry, he was getting attention. When I finally went back to sleep, I dreamed of the ways to hurt him.

    In the end, I didn’t have to kill Gerard. He did it all by himself.

    I found him dead on the bathroom floor. Overdose. I called an ambulance, because Mom was too hysterical to. It didn’t make a difference, he was already dead. The funeral was bleak, boring. Frank was invited, but didn’t come. Everyone was crying, except me. I knew this was everything he wanted. Attention. Constant attention. People mourned and cried over him. Everyone came to see his dead body. It was the most attention he had ever gotten, and now it would be forever, because now his name was carved in stone. He had attention, but now, so did I. He corrected all his wrongs without having to make a right.

**But even with all this, all the condolences, and tears and fights, I still only felt two things for him. Hate and pity. But that was all he needed from me.**

**Author's Note:**

> this was based loosely off of the opening blurb of My Sisters Keeper.
> 
> I just really like My Sisters Keeper okay.


End file.
